


Mr. Fix It Has a Visitor

by cairistiona



Series: Mr Fix It [2]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Winter Soldier (Comics)
Genre: AU, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky Barnes is a bookworm, Bucky Barnes is strong, Gen, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-02-23 11:56:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23344429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cairistiona/pseuds/cairistiona
Summary: Being an apartment building superintendent was supposed to be a nice anonymous proposition, but this is Bucky Barnes and things never seem to go like he plans.
Series: Mr Fix It [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1679002
Comments: 76
Kudos: 59





	1. Mop Buckets and Memories

**Author's Note:**

> Bucky keeping a low profile post-CATWS as a maintenance man in St. Louis keeps calling to me, so I’m going to take a deeper dive into that world. I want to revel in post-CATWS Bucky living a quiet life, learning how to be a person in a place filled with quirky neighbors, and maybe take him on more comic-book canon adventures.
> 
> My plan, such as it is, is to accept MCU canon up to CATWS, including the events in The Avengers but not in Age of Ultron. No CACW, probably no Thanos, though who knows. That’s waaaay in the distance, though. For now, I’ll focus in on the smaller story of Bucky recovering, maybe with Avengers-types showing up now and then to disrupt his world and to provide support and aggravation. I only have a very hazy idea of where this might eventually end up, but for now, he’s living the best life he can in his dumpy Dutchtown sanctuary, starting to read books and get to know his neighbors better. 
> 
> You might want to read or re-familiarize yourself with Mr. Fix It for full effect. But if you don’t want to, I’ll put a glossary of a few of the OC’s in the endnotes.
> 
> Thanks to Imbecamiel for the beta! Errors are mine, not hers, and be warned that it's highly likely I have forgotten my own continuity details, so just... be nice if you correct me.

Bucky nudged the battered yellow mop bucket to the left with his foot. As he swiped the string mop around the floor in the spot where the bucket had been sitting, a wave of pine-scented cleaner washed a memory up from a dingy corner of his brain.

_“Make sure you polish that floor so bright I can shave in it, you hear me, Private?”_

_“Yes, Sergeant Barnes.”_

_“Maybe after a week of cleaning the floors with a toothbrush, you’ll learn how to tell time and not miss the curfew.”_

_“Yes, Sergeant Barnes.”_

The mottled green-and-gray linoleum of the Tholozon Avenue apartment building that the erstwhile Sergeant Barnes was currently mopping was about seventy years past ever being shiny again, no matter how many toothbrushes, mops, disinfectant or wax he slapped against it. As soon as the water dried, it would show every dull minute of its too-long life. He grimaced. _Kinda like me most days._

He blew a strand of hair out of his eyes and kept pushing the mop.

Midnight was, in general, the best time to mop the floors. Most of the residents were tucked up in bed instead of coming and going, especially in the cold and dreary weather of late February. But just as he drew even to apartment 2D, the door flung open. Bucky was proud of himself for not immediately jabbing the mop handle through Charlie Bender’s sternum. Charlie, he of the hazelnut coffee creamer obsession and pinochle with Kowalski, stepped out, his thumbs busy typing on his phone, oblivious to how close he had just come to having his next pinochle game with St. Peter instead of his buddies. Beyond him, Bucky glimpsed a living room crammed with enough computer paraphernalia to launch a space station. A strong odor of coffee overpowered the pine scent. “Watch your step,” Bucky said.

Charlie glanced up from his phone, blinked at Bucky and then at the floor. “Oh. I can wait,” he muttered, then stepped back into his apartment and slammed the door. He never stopped texting.

Well. At least he hadn’t tried to stand around and chat. Or invite Bucky in to play pinochle. Bucky might have been a card shark in his past life, for all he knew, but nowadays he didn’t have the first clue how to play any card games, nor did he want to learn. Too much talking.

He took a deep breath, counted to ten, then let out it. He’d read an article in a magazine he’d found on the ground by the dumpster out back that said deep breathing could help bring about calmness and focus. He tried it again.

_Breathe._

_Focus._

It definitely helped. He had no idea why, but the article was right.

He dunked the mop in the bucket. Sloshed it around. Jammed it in the wringer and yanked the lever. Slopped the still-dripping mop back on the floor. _Swish-swish-swish_. Dunk, slosh, jam, yank, swish-swish-swish, repeat. He didn’t mind mopping floors. Once he got in a rhythm, he didn’t have to think, didn’t have to feel anything. Just had to focus on cleaning the floor and maybe remember long-ago times when being a sergeant in the Army was simple and straightforward and involved a lot of yelling at fellas and making them clean things when there weren’t any Nazis around to kill.

Another door farther down the hall opened a crack.

_What the hell. Is the whole building still awake?_

Music blasted, a single eye glared at him, then the door slammed and the screeching howls and thumping bass cut off. Jackie-something. Listened to punk rock any time she was home and, as far as Bucky could tell, only came out at night. He wondered idly if she was a vampire.

_“There’s no such thing as vampires, Buck. Be reasonable.” Steve shoved another huge bite of shit-on-a-shingle in his mouth. He chewed with a blissful expression, like it was the best steak from Delmonico’s instead of Army-regulation chipped beef on toast._

_They say hunger seasons all dishes, but Bucky’s hunger wasn’t anywhere near strong enough for him to stomach shit-on-a-shingle. His tin plate rattled as he shoved his portion across the table toward Steve and resumed his argument, raising his voice a little to be heard over the rain drumming on the tent canvas over their heads. “How do you know for sure? I mean, northern Italy ain’t all that far away from Transylvania. One coulda come down here from there. War displaces everybody.”_

_“Even vampires?”_

_“Something got to those sheep back there.”_

_“Buck. It was stray dogs. Not vampires. Not werewolves. Just cold and hungry dogs. Now shut up before Dugan hears you and gets the heebie-jeebies even worse than he already has.” He shoved Bucky’s plate back at him. “And eat your share. Can’t have my sergeant collapsing from hunger.”_

_Bucky shoved it back. “It ain’t just heebie—”_

Jackie’s door opened again, this time wide enough to let him see her entire face, or at least the part that wasn’t hidden by a wave of jet black hair. This week there was a blue streak in it. Last week had been bright yellow.

He stopped mopping.

“Kowalski told me you like to read,” she muttered.

He thought about _The Hobbit_ book that was sitting on his nightstand. He was six chapters in and so far, though it wasn’t exactly his cuppa, it wasn’t horrible. He could relate to getting dragged off on an adventure he wanted no part in. He didn’t know what the hell kinda books he used to like anyway, so it was a start. “Uh, I guess.”

The door slammed again, then a moment later re-opened. A booted foot kicked a cardboard box toward him. “Kowalski told me you were lookin’ for Tarzan books. Got the whole set, was my great grandpa’s. Don’t want ’em back, I ain’t into Tarzan, plus they mess with my asthma. Pass ’em along to whoever when you’re done.” The door started to close, then reopened. “And, uh, thanks for, you know, keeping the building so clean. Last guy was a lazy bastard that never did nothin’.” The door slammed shut before he could respond, and shortly after the music resumed even louder than before. Some angry fella shouting about anarchy in England. Didn’t really sound much like music to Bucky. No way you could dance to—

“ _You don’t like music?” Bucky asked. Damn, Peggy Carter could fill out a dress like few dames Bucky had ever seen, but she didn’t even give him a glance as she answered._

_“I do, actually. I might even, when this is all over, go dancing.”_

_“Then what are we waitin’ for?”_

_She still didn’t look at him. Just locked eyes with Steve. “The right partner.”_

_Which any sap could tell wasn’t James Buchanan Barnes. You’d have to be stone blind not to see the way she was lookin’ at Steve._

_Lookin’ at_ Steve _. What the hell._

_She walked away while Bucky was still lost in his dismayed thoughts. He shook his head. “I’m invisible. I’m… I’m turning into you. It’s a horrible dream.”_

_“Don’t take it so hard,” Steve said as he slapped him on the shoulder. “Maybe she’s got a friend.”_

God almighty. He’d lost a girl to _Steve Rogers_ , a man who could barely speak to a dame even after he’d been turned into the living embodiment of a Greek god. The world really had been turned upside that year.

He shook off the memories, leaned the mop against the wall and walked cautiously over to the box. He flipped open the cardboard flaps. The box was filled with reddish-brown hardcover books that smelled musty enough to have killed asthmatic, pre-Greek God Steve Rogers in one breath. The one on top had _Tarzan and the Apes_ emblazoned on it in faded gold type. He pulled it out and flipped it open. The pages were yellowed around the edges and wrinkled from a too-close encounter with water sometime in their distant past, but he smiled. The copies he and Steve read so long ago had looked exactly like these, minus the age and mildew. He walked over to the closed door. “Thanks!” he called, and hoped she heard him over the angry anarchist.

He picked up the box and moved it to a corner of the landing where no one would trip over it, then went back to mopping the second floor hall.

Too bad Jackie wasn’t into Tarzan, but it was nice to know someone appreciated a clean floor as much as he did.

_tbc..._


	2. Dirty Mop Water Makes A Fine Weapon

He’d have to make two trips to the basement, one to dump the mop bucket and another to haul down the box of books. No problem. Not like at midnight he had a full agenda of things to do. He thought about taking the books down first, but an echo of his mother’s voice chided him to take care of business first, pleasure second. Besides, no one was likely to steal a box of old books tucked away on the second-floor landing.

He could have carried both with absolutely no problem, since the cybernetic arm made the box of books about as hard to carry as a feather pillow, but then he’d have both hands full. Couldn’t draw his knife with both hands full.

_You don’t need a knife here in the building. You’re as safe as that box of books in the corner._

Yeah. Well. Maybe.

Be stupid to risk it, though. He could survive if someone stole the books. Be annoyed, but alive. A HYDRA agent showing up with shutdown codes and shackles? Bye-bye, memories. Maybe even bye-bye, pulse.

No thanks. Messed up as his life was, he still cherished breathing and waking up each morning on the right side of the dirt.

He descended the stairs, careful not to let the water slop out of the bucket. He had already mopped the steps and even if the linoleum was cracked and ancient, he didn’t want to have to go back and polish out water droplet stains, which he would definitely do because he had discovered he had a perfectionist streak a mile wide when it came to making sure he did a job right.

He tried not to think about how HYDRA had exploited that particular trait.

He stopped in front of his door, set the bucket down and dug out his key. He opened the door a crack and stopped to listen like he always did. Didn’t hear anything. He picked up the bucket and shouldered the door open. He shoved his key back in his pocket, then reached for the light fixture chain.

And froze.

He heard breathing, the quiet, slow breaths of someone trying to hide. Coming from his left, by the bed.

_Damn it_.

He’d been so proud of keeping both hands free, but now he was stuck with a mop bucket in his metal hand and his right hand up in the air, where it would take .2 seconds too long to draw the knife in his back pocket.

He had the bucket, though, and…

Well, mattresses dry out.

Acting as if he was fumbling to find the chain, he swung the bucket hard toward the bed. Amidst a cascade of filthy water came a very loudly shouted, “ _Motherf-”_ that was interrupted by coughing.

Bucky yanked the chain and the light revealed a black man with an eye patch and a long leather coat, currently bent over with his hands on his knees as he choked and spat. Bucky started toward him, but the man held up an empty right hand and yelled, “Barnes! Stop! I’m a friend!” His left hand was busy swiping water off his face and out of his eye.

Hearing the man say his name stopped his headlong rush more than any belief that the stranger was a—

— _he aimed the rifle at the wall, behind which sat his target. He knew the bullet had the power to punch through masonry and insulation and plaster, just had to make sure he accounted for the difference in elevation and the northwest breeze_ —

He blinked. This man wasn’t a stranger. He was… _shit._ He’d been a _mission_.

Bucky yanked out his knife. If the man wanted revenge, Bucky wasn’t going to make it easy for him. “I shot you. In D.C.”

“Yes, you did,” he replied, as calmly as if Bucky had said they’d met once at a Christmas party.

“You here to kill me?”

“No. I’m here as a friend. The guy that shot me isn’t around here anymore, far as I’m concerned.”

Oh, wasn’t that cute and naïve. “Friends don’t break into a fella’s apartment.” If he growled a little as he said that, oh well. He wasn’t exactly planning on serving up cookies and milk, even if he had any, which at the moment, he didn’t.

The man wasn’t fazed by Bucky’s tone. If anything, he looked amused. “Damn, you really do sound like you’re from 1940.”

Bucky glared so hard a headache bloomed between his eyebrows. “Who the hell _are_ you?”

“These days, just a friend of Cap’s.”

Cap. _Steve_. Oh no. He wasn’t ready for that. The echoes of _you're my mission_ were fainter these days, some ten months after… everything. But… no. He wasn't ready for a face to face, no matter how much he wanted it. In the future, maybe. The _far_ future, when his brain wasn’t full of holes and lingering echoes of violence. “He here?”

“No.”

“He know where I am? He send you to take me in?”

The man swiped his hand down his face, trying to clear away the filthy water. “No and no. Hell, if he knew you were here, he’d have busted down your door himself and been waiting for you with a cake and balloons.”

The man probably wasn’t wrong about that. Bucky lowered the knife but didn’t sheave it. “Who are you, besides the guy I shot? And a friend of Steve’s.”

“A man who keeps his eye on threats.”

Back up with the knife. “Like me?”

“No, not like you. Unless I’m reading you wrong, you’re no threat to the good guys anymore.”

This guy was apparently criminally stupid. Bucky could be a threat to anyone at any time if someone said the trigger words. “Why did you break into my place?”

The man held up a key. “Didn’t break in.”

What the _hell._ “Where’d you get that?”

“My cousin owns the building.”

Ice crackled down Bucky’s spine. Shit. Shit, shit, _shit. How long has Mr. Franklin known who I am?_ “Mr. Franklin’s your cousin?”

“His mother is my mother’s sister.”

Bucky deliberately did _not_ let his gaze dart to the secret exit he’d added to his basement room, despite every brain cell in his head screaming at him to dive into it. The words scraped out of his fear-dry throat, but he kept his expression calm. “You got a name?”

“Call me Fury.”

_Yeah, and call me Grumpy._ “What the hell kinda Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs name is that?”

“The one I prefer. My full name is Nicholas J. Fury. But you can call me Fury.”

“All right, Fury. You still haven’t answered my question. Why are you here?”

“To see what you can give me.”

Bucky almost laughed. He waved his arm toward the nearly empty shelf above the hot plate. “You here to rob me of my last can of black-eyed peas? ’Cuz that’s pretty much all I got right now.” He was hoping to go to the Helping Hand food bank tomorrow afternoon, stock some shelves there so he could earn some canned goods to stock his own shelves here at home. Now it looked like he needed to get the hell on a plane to Europe or somewhere.

“No, I don’t want your last can of food,” Fury said, as if he thought dirt-flavored black-eyed peas were food. Black-eyed peas, like Brussels sprouts, would never go on Bucky’s list of good things. Fury held up both hands, then used his left hand to slowly reach into his jacket. He pulled out a thick roll of bills secured with a rubber band. “I’m also here to see what I can give you.”

“I don’t need money.” Bucky did, so he wouldn’t have to eat those peas, but no need for this joker to know that.

“Bullshit.” Fury tossed it on the table. “Sorry if they’re a little damp.”

“I said, I don’t need—”

“It’s HYDRA funds, confiscated from an offshore account, if that helps your pride—or your conscience—at all.”

It actually did. But he still asked, “Why give it to me? Plenty of better people need it more.”

“I need you alive and not weak from hunger.”

_“Can’t have my sergeant collapsing from hunger….”_

Damn it. He wasn’t gonna be Nick Fury’s sergeant. Still. He was curious. “Alive to do what? I’m not interested in killing for anyone anymore.”

Fury nodded. “I understand. How is your head?”

“You mean do I have control over my own mind again?”

Fury waited.

Bucky shrugged. “Some days are better than others.”

“I know people who could help.”

“No. Can’t put anybody at risk like that. Gotta do this myself.”

“Rogers told me you were stubborn.”

“That all he told you?”

“He told me you were a good man, back in the day. Best soldier he ever fought beside.”

“Yeah, well, that was last century.” And then, because he couldn’t help himself, “How is he? Steve?”

“Last time I saw him, he was fine.”

“When was that?”

“Right before I went to Europe last spring. I’m officially dead, by the way.”

“Lot of that goin’ around.”

Fury smiled suddenly, which was a little unnerving. “Being officially dead is surprisingly convenient. No taxes, for one thing.” He reached into his pocket again, holding out his free hand when Bucky tensed up. He pulled out a manila envelope and tossed it on the table beside the bills. “Driver's license, birth certificate. Credit card. Even got you a passport. You’re now James Buckman. Full identity built into the system. Buckman’s record is as clean as the floors around here, save for a speeding ticket you got three years ago, because nobody’s perfect. Use that ID if you need to get on an airplane.” He glanced at the book on the nightstand. “Or if you want to get a library card.”

Bucky didn’t even look at the envelope. Questions zoomed through his brain faster than he could sort out and it was making his chest feel tight.

_Breathe, Buck._

_Focus_.

He finally said, “Look, you wanna cut to the chase and tell me what you really want from me?”

“I just want to give you an option to keep open, should you ever decide hiding out in south St. Louis is losing its charm.”

_More people like you show up uninvited and it will._ But he opted for nonchalance. “Doubt that’ll be any time soon. Haven’t even been up in the Arch yet, and I hear the baseball team is pretty good.”

“Well, far be it for me to stop you from playing tourist.” He studied Bucky for a moment, then said, “Look, Barnes, whether you like it or not, you’re part of something bigger.”

Bucky ran his hand over his hair. Tugged on it in the back. _Breathe, dammit._ He gave Fury a long look, and something about the man’s calm presence finally caused the panic to loosen its grip just a little. Whatever else Fury might be, Bucky didn’t sense any dishonesty in him. “Look, I appreciate what you’re tryin’ to say. But I don’t want to be part of anything bigger. I was, once. Didn’t turn out so good for anybody.” He sighed. “Nothing good’ll come outta me diving in again, trust me. Hell, I don’t even know for sure that it’s a good idea for me to be living in this ratty building. I oughta be in a cave in a mountain somewhere, away from people.”

Fury reached into yet another pocket— _how many damn pockets did that coat have?_ —and brought out a phone and a charger cord. He put them on the table. “If you decide to move to a cave, that’s up to you, but make sure it has a cell signal. I don’t know if you watch the news much, but there’s a lotta nasty stuff going on in the world these days, and it’s only getting worse. I could use a man who’s good in a fight. If you decide you want to do something about it, or even if all you need is some help or more money or even if that shiny metal arm goes on the fritz, I’ll be at the other end any time you call. Night or day. No strings.”

_No strings, my ass._ “How do you know I won’t destroy that the minute you leave?”

“You might. I’m willing to bet you won’t.” He stepped to the door, then paused. “Keep it charged up.” He walked out, leaving a trail of wet footprints behind him.

Damn it. Now he’d have to mop the stairs again.

_tbc..._


	3. HYDRA’s Chairs Didn’t Have Soft Cushions

As soon as the echo of Fury’s steps faded away and the close of the building’s main entrance door thumped through the walls, Bucky shut his own door. Took him two tries to fumble the chain and then the deadbolt home. Normally he did it on the first try, but normally, his hand didn’t shake and his brain wasn’t wailing at him like an air raid siren to _LEAVE! RUN! NOW!_

He raked his fingers through his hair.

_Calm down._

Like telling himself that ever helped.

He tried the deep breathing thing.

_In._

_Out._

_In._

_Out._

_Breathe._

_Focus._

Focus on what, was the problem. His brain latched onto the idea of crawling through his secret tunnel, running all the way to the Mississippi River, diving in and then swimming to New Orleans and not stopping until he reached the Yucatan.

He walked over to the bricks behind the boiler that camouflaged the door. Pressed on the one that released the spring-loaded latch. The door swing silently open on well-oiled hinges. Light didn’t cut very far into the gloom beyond the door, but he saw the dark lump of his bug-out backpack just within the entrance. He picked it up. It was heavy with weapons, a flashlight, his four most important notebooks, some water and food. Granola bars, mostly, but also a Hershey bar. And a change of underwear and socks.

He looked down the dark tunnel. Cool air wafted across his face.

He let several heartbeats tick by.

Stay?

Go?

Stay?

Go?

Trust Fury, or not?

 _You tried to kill him, but he didn’t hold it against you,_ his brain offered _._

He broke into my apartment!

_He could have broken in and slit your throat while you slept._

Shut up, brain. You’re not helping.

He sighed. Actually, his brain was helping, for a change. Fury really could have killed him, but didn’t. Instead he offered to help him. Damn few people had done that in the last nine months before he washed ashore in St. Louis, other than oblivious church people and a few unwitting truck drivers who had picked up a shaggy-haired hitchhiker at risk of their own lives. Nice of them, but no one had offered him a phone, money, ID papers, or a connection to Steve Rogers. Even if he didn’t necessarily want a connection, it was still kind of nice that Fury provided it.

But the strings attached were… a problem. _Joining_ wasn’t something he wanted to do. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But… if joining whatever superhero band Fury was putting together could help him eventually get his pound of flesh from HYDRA (dear god, he wanted way more than a pound), then…

He put the backpack down. Swung the door shut. Listened to the faint click of the latch.

Stay, then.

He turned around and stared at the money and the envelope, still on the table.

He wasn’t ready to look at whatever was in that envelope.

If he was staying, he needed to clean up the bed. He gave the table a wide berth as he retrieved the nearly-empty bucket from the disaster of his cot.

The envelope was a mocking tan blur as he hurried past.

_If you trust Fury, open the envelope already. Fury may have just given you the means to be a normal person._

Trouble was, being a person, normal or otherwise, involved a helluva lot more than possessing a driver’s license or passport. A normal person didn’t have a false identity. A normal person didn’t have a murderous alter ego whispering in his brain. A normal person didn’t leave bloodshed and violence and terror in his wake. A normal person could look in the mirror and be confident of who he really was. Hell, he’d only just in the last coupla months finally felt a little more reconnected to the name James Buchanan Barnes. He wasn’t sure he was ready to assume a false name.

He tried it on. “Hi, I’m James Buckman.” Okay, that wasn’t too hard. “Call me—”

What? James? Jimmy?

“—Bucky.”

Yeah, that still felt as right as anything could at this point. Whoever the hell Bucky was, the name still felt _him_ more than James or, god forbid, Jimmy.

Small consolation.

Kowalski knew him mostly as James, but as far as he could recall, he’d never given Kowalski his last name. He also didn’t think anyone else in the building knew his name, first or last. Suddenly going by James Buckman shouldn’t be a problem, then, except for giving him an even worse existential crisis than he already had.

Hell, his entire existence was an existential crisis. Not like a new name would make things any better or worse.

He took the bucket to the little curtained-off shower area and dumped out what was left of the water, then rinsed out the dirt that remained in the bottom. Once it was as clean as he could make it, he tucked it away in a corner, then rinsed the mop and stood it upright beside the bucket. Fury’s wet footprints would have to wait.

The envelope stared at him as he passed the table on his way to inspect the bed.

He ignored it.

The blankets were completely soaked, but they, along with Fury, had absorbed the brunt of the storm; the mattress beneath was only a little damp along the edge. He could still sleep on it. Be a little chilly without bedding, but he could put on more clothes, maybe even his coat. He’d slept under far worse conditions. He’d have to wait to wash the blankets in the morning. The building had a no-laundry-after-midnight rule and it was now—he squinted at the clock—12:45 a.m.

He doubted he could get to sleep anyway. Too much adrenaline and anxiety still rattling his bones.

His bed squared away, he couldn’t put it off any longer. He sat down at the table. Straightened the envelope so its corners were square with the tabletop’s edges. Leaving it for the time being, he picked up the phone. It was a smartphone, with a touch screen that at the moment was completely black. He pressed a button on the side and it flickered to life. It blinked, flashed and vibrated through the start up and finally presented him with a screen full of icons. He tapped the one with the phone symbol, then the contacts button. There were two numbers on it. One for Fury and the other—

_Shit._

The other was for Steve.

What the hell. As if he needed the means to call the man who less than a year ago was his mission. What kind of idiot was Fury, anyway? No way would he ever call that number.

His thumb had other ideas and tapped the contact info. It supplied a number and options to text or call. No email. No physical address. There was also a delete option, but Bucky wasn’t about to do that, even if part of him was screaming that he do so, immediately.

He opened a blank text.

_Hey, Steve. It’s Bucky. Wanna get coffee? I promise not to kill you._

He deleted it.

He backed out of contacts and looked over the icons on the home page. The text box had a small number 1 on it, which gave him a moment of panic, thinking he’d actually sent the text to Steve, which was ridiculous, but he still held his breath when he opened the text app.

It was from Fury. Thank god.

There was a string of numbers, followed by, _“Just down the street.”_

There was a bank just down the street, so safe bet this was an account number. He figured out how to see all the apps on the phone and there it was, an app for Metro Bank. A tap and he was presented with a choice to sign in or sign up. He clicked on “sign up” and it asked him for an account number. He went back to the text, copied the number, then pasted it the empty box.

_Look at me, all techy like a pro._

He didn’t let himself think too hard about how he had actually acquired smart phone knowledge. Or even how he knew the term “smart phone.”

The app asked him to set up a password.

He typed in, “steverogersisapunk.”

A message in red told him a valid password had to include at least 8 letters, a number, one capitalized letter, and a special character.

Good grief.

He typed, “SteveRogersisagradeA#1punk!”

It was happy with that and asked him to choose a secret question. It offered up “Your father’s middle name” as a suggestion.

_My father’s middle name? The hell if I know._

He checked the drop-down list for a better option and found one. Favorite candy. Hershey bars. Easy enough.

He finally arrived at a request for his address and social security number.

Damn it. He’d have to open the envelope.

He used one finger to pull it toward himself. He only hesitated a few seconds before he ripped off one end and shook out the contents. Birth certificate showing he was born on February 16, 1989. Okay, he knew his real birthday was March 10, 1917, so good job obscuring that connection, Fury. He had been born in… Indiana? The hell? He thought he was from Brooklyn, but okay. More misdirection to throw people off the scent. Still felt kind of weird. He tried to imagine living in a house in the middle of a cornfield. Sitting on the front porch, watching fireflies, maybe drinking a big glass of lemonade.

It might not be a bad way to live.

There was a Missouri driver’s license, complete with photo of him that looked like… well, it kind of looked like someone had taken an old photo of him and did an expert job of adding longer hair. Same with the passport photo, though it was based on a different old photo. Whoever Fury paid to make false documents was definitely an expert.

He fished out the blue and white social security card from the pile, which actually showed wear and tear typical for something printed in the 1990’s and carried around in a wallet ever since. More quality work. He punched the numbers into the app and, hey presto, he was approved as the legitimate owner of a bank account holding…

He blinked, but the number didn’t change.

$412,034.12

What the hell. He had… he had close to half a million dollars.

He put the phone down.

Ran his hand over his face.

Picked up the phone and texted Fury.

_“I can’t be bought.”_

Barely 20 seconds passed before Fury replied.

_“no strings you earned it unless you’d rather the octopus kept it”_

Fury evidently saw no need for proper capitalization or punctuation.

 _“Use it to buy Steve some fuckin’ parachutes.”_ Bucky _did_ care about proper capitalization and punctuation. Even in a text. And he’d seen the news footage of Captain Idiotic jumping out of planes and off buildings without a parachute.

 _“he wouldnt use em anyway”_ Then a moment later, “ _buy yourself a new mattress”_

Bucky didn’t need a new mattress. Maybe some new blankets, though.

He laughed a little, then turned off the phone.

What was he gonna do with a half million bucks? And how’d they dump that much money into an account all at once? He remembered Kowalski complaining about the hoops he’d had to jump through just to deposit the $11,000 he’d inherited from his aunt, having to prove to the “stick-up-his-ass banker” that he hadn’t just robbed a bank or knocked off a little old lady for her life savings.

Oh well. Fury probably had connections somewhere with someone who greased those potentially sticking wheels.

He looked around his little basement room. Move to a better place? But this suited him. It was quiet, hidden, and he’d spent an ungodly amount of time in the last three weeks modifying several dark corners into hiding places, including the secret hidden tunnel. When he had chanced upon the bricked-up passageway, he’d done a little discreet questioning about the history of the building. Mr. Franklin, after another one of his long pauses where he had stared at Bucky as if reading him down to his soul, told him that there’d been an honest-to-god speakeasy in the basement back during Prohibition. _“Yeah, it even had a secret tunnel that leads through some caves into a park about twenty blocks to the east, almost to the Mississippi_. _You can see where the entrance is bricked over, behind the boiler._ ”

Which, now that he knew Franklin was Fury’s cousin, gave his “a place to live, a job and, oh, I’m not gonna mention it, but there’s an escape tunnel” offer a whole new meaning.

Damn it. It was almost like he was slowly getting herded into a life he didn’t want. Again. “Sorry, I don’t want any adventures, thank you,” he muttered.

But… he had a lot more spine than Bilbo, and unlike the Winter Soldier, he still had a choice, and that choice was to live a life of helping people, not hurting them. Could he work for… no, could he work _with_ Fury and whatever other Avenger type wanted his talents? Could he do that without losing himself in the process?

Not even a month ago, he would have said no. A resounding no. Maybe accompanied by a shriek as he ran away. But now? He hadn’t had a bad flashback since before he made pancakes. He still had bad dreams. Still sometimes lost track of his name or his eye color, but the echoes in his head of handlers chanting code words had been mercifully silent lately. Not that he had any illusions whatsoever that the damage was still there, that the programming still lurked… but the quiet of the last few weeks gave him some hope that he was at least _starting_ to heal, that there might come a day when he was whole again and able to live a life beyond the walls of this ratty old building.

So. Maybe.

He still had his footlocker full of guns and his vague goal of someday going after HYDRA. Be kinda nice if he didn’t have to do it as a one-man army.

He stared at the cash. From the thickness of the roll, it had to be well over a thousand dollars, if it was all hundreds. Probably wasn’t, but even if it was all one-dollar bills wrapped by a hundred-dollar bill, it was still more pocket change than he ever remembered having in his entire life. And he had nearly half a million more to draw from after he spent the roll.

What should he do with all this moolah, anyway?

He could use a new coffee pot, maybe, and a better radio. He didn’t need a television—he had Kowalski for that. Maybe he’d buy one of those nice recliners like Kowalski’s. Lazy Man or Lazy Baby, whatever the hell they were called. He’d had a bit of a mental hiccup when Kowalski made him try it and had him pop out the footstool and recline the back, but the damn thing was so… _cushy_ that it didn’t give him much more than a split second’s pause when he started going backward.

HYDRA’s chairs didn’t have soft cushions or cup holders or an arm rest that flipped open to hold your stash of Hershey bars.

Yeah, he’d buy a Lazy-whatever chair and he’d definitely buy a big bunch of Hershey bars to put in the armrest and then he’d eat himself sick while reading Tarzan books.

He’d buy something for Kowalski, who’d given him a gift card for Ted Drewe’s frozen custard as a sort of get-well present after Bucky’s pre-pancake PTSD fit. Nice of him, and Bucky had wanted to reciprocate, but he hadn’t had any spare money for gift giving. He’d invited Kowalski down for pancakes, and after initially declining because he preferred waffles, Kowalski had accepted his invitation. They’d had a nice dinner, Kowalski sitting at the table and Bucky on the bed. Maybe he’d get a waffle iron, so he could fix waffles next time. And another chair for the table. Bucky had woken up itchy from sleeping on pancake crumbs that night.

He could go to a hockey game. Kowalski had been pestering him to go to one with him, but he’d looked at the prices and adamantly declined.

But how to explain he now had a shitload of cash to burn?

Well, Kowalski’s aunt had died, so maybe he could manufacture a convenient dead uncle. That’d be an easily-accepted explanation, and all his uncles were most definitely dead by now, so it wasn’t like he’d be completely lying.

He could buy more wool socks. His feet were perpetually cold. Be nice to have warm feet. A thick rug, maybe one of those Persian ones like his grandmother had, if they still made those. He wasn’t exactly up on modern home décor trends despite watching HGTV with Kowalski a few times. They mostly watched cooking shows and shows about veterinarians when they hung out together.

He looked at the bare concrete floor. There were hairline cracks running all over it. So far it had stayed dry, but spring would bring melting snow and probably a lot of rain and maybe flooding. Maybe before he put a rug down, he should seal the cracks against any future leaks. He would need to look up how to do that, which reminded him that he could now get a library card.

He would also give a shit-ton of the money away. He saw a lot of homeless people around, and he had been homeless himself only a few months ago. Maybe he’d drop some hundreds into the alms box at Church of the Redeemer.

He looked at the bank app again. He hadn’t imagined it. The money was still there.

Maybe Fury was trying to herd him into a new corral like he was an untamed horse, but if the corral had books, a decent chair and the free choice to come and go, it _might_ not be such a bad thing.

_tbc..._


	4. A Just-Barely-Not-A-Monster Ex-Assassin

It was _such_ a bad thing.

Bad enough that when he stretched out on his (sadly blanket-less) bed, all he could do was stare at the ceiling and listen to his rampaging heart rate.

He had been off the radar screen, or so he’d thought, but now he was on the edge of it again. Maybe just on the edge of the good guys’ screen, but still… a whole lot of potential “they’s” apparently knew he existed and knew where to find him.

_Run. You gotta run. Get away. Get off the grid again and make sure you stay off._

He sat up. Enough of the corner streetlight’s glow struggled past the plastic bags over his window to turn his familiar room into a potentially foreign landscape of shadows. But he knew this nighttime vista just as well as when the room as washed in full daylight. He knew no one was in the room with him. The tunnel door was locked and the regular door was dead-bolted from the inside. He was alone.

But he still felt like eyes were watching him.

What if Fury had left a bug?

His heart rate amped up another notch.

_Damn it._

He got up. Pulled the light string. Harsh but reassuring warm light from the bare bulb flooded the room. He looked at the ceiling. Rows of wooden joists, ductwork and pipes… there could be a pinhole camera in any of it. Likewise, plenty of hiding spots for listening devices. Since he didn’t have any kind of scanner, it would take a whole day to go over every nook and cranny.

Did it really matter, though?

HYDRA could find him simply by watching his movements on the street. They wouldn’t bother with passive surveillance devices; they’d just barge in, speak a shutdown code word and stuff him into the trunk of a car. Same with SHIELD, though they probably didn’t know any code words or surely Fury would have used one. And if either organization—or others, say the CIA or NSA—listened in because they thought he was regularly entertaining spies, they were in for a disappointing and boring surveillance session.

Of course, he might talk in his sleep. Who knows what he might say about his past. He certainly didn’t. So maybe it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility that someone might be passively listening in.

He’d have to go over the entire thing, inch by inch.

Or he could just… leave.

He grabbed his coat and hat, pulled on his gloves. Then he looked from the more conventional exit to the rest of the building to the tunnel door.

Did he want to _leave_ leave, or just get out of a room that was feeling more stifling by the minute?

Nah, he didn’t need to hit the road. Too premature for that level of panic. But the walls felt like they were closing in, so he unlocked the chain and the deadbolt and headed up the steps, bypassing as always the one that creaked. He hesitated in the foyer, but instead of heading out the front door to the street, he went out the back door, the one that opened into the alley with its three dumpsters where probably some homeless person was sleeping—or a HYDRA agent was lurking. He cautiously approached the first one. Flipped open the lid.

Nothing but trash.

Same with the other two, and no one lurking behind or between.

He started breathing again.

He hopped atop one dumpster to grab the retractable ladder for the fire escape. He pulled himself silently onto the first landing, then climbed on until he reached the ladder that curved over the parapet to the roof itself. He clambered over. His feet crunched against the gravel layer of the roofing. He noticed several bare spots where the tarpaper showed through—though no one had complained about leaks yet, might be time to talk to Mr. Franklin about a roof inspection.

Mr. Franklin. Fury’s cousin. Probably a secret member of SHIELD.

Should he stay on here, keep working for him like he was the ordinary disabled vet they both knew he wasn’t? Or should he call up Franklin and have one of those awkward “I know you know who I am” conversations, and let the chips fall where they may?

Damn it. He _liked_ it here. He didn’t want to leave. Not yet.

He was probably overthinking it. Mr. Franklin obviously knew his real identity and hadn’t kicked him out, so maybe there wasn’t anything to fear.

Yeah, and maybe Steve Rogers could talk to women.

He walked over to one of the chimneys and sat down at the base of it. Not that there was any residual warmth coming from it. Not like the old days, when chimneys vented heat and smoke from fireplaces and coal-burning stoves, enough smoke to smudge the sky in a haze of gray and brown soot in the winter.

_“Hey, Steve, look… it’s the Big Dipper,” Bucky said as he pointed. It was a rare clear night, perfect for trying to find stars. Cold air blew frigid against his face, but the bricks at his back were nice and warm. “And there’s the North Star. Imagine if all you had to navigate by was the stars. You’d get completely lost.”_

_“Would not. I’d have you to show me where to go.”_

_“What if I’m not there?”_

_“You’ll always be there, Buck.”_

_Bucky threw his arm over Steve’s shoulder. “Damn right I will be, punk.”_

His throat knotted up. Damn it. He was supposed to always be there for Steve, but then the war came and the Army called and…

Well. Steve ended up not really needing him, anyway.

He sniffed. Thought about warm chimneys and folks huddled on the roof. Sometimes when he or Steve went up top to look for falling stars, there’d be a hobo next to one of the brick stacks, just sleeping, minding his own business. No danger to two little boys who had snuck out of their rooms to stargaze.

Bucky missed those days. Lot easier to be a wandering homeless person back in the 1930’s than it was in the 2010’s. Hell, it was even easier to say what you were: a hobo. These days, he was pretty sure you weren’t supposed to call people hobos, even if you were one.

Although that really wasn’t all he was. He was a genetically-altered, fugitive super soldier with a cybernetic arm. How’s that for a mouthful.

He pulled off his left glove and flexed the metal fingers. Fury’s words came back to him.

_“If that shiny metal arm goes on the fritz, I’ll be at the other end any time you call. Night or day. No strings.”_

Bucky raised the arm up over his head. It let out what was now its usual grinding squeak. Be just his luck that a malfunctioning metal arm would be what forced him to accept whatever strings Fury would put on getting it fixed. Because with Fury, no matter what he said, there would be strings. So many strings.

He tugged the glove back on and crossed his arms, tucking each hand under the opposite arm. Didn’t need to keep his metal hand warm, but it felt more balanced to tuck it under just like the right one. He stared across the rooftop. Not much to see, sitting on his ass like he was. There was a two-foot high brick parapet all the way around the rooftop. Above it, he could make out antennas, satellite dishes, chimneys, the tops of some trees and a distant television tower’s blinking red lights, but other than that, not much. All but the brightest stars were washed out by ambient light.

If he were in Indiana, he could see the stars.

Maybe he should backtrack, retrace his route here from Washington, DC. Settle down in some abandoned farmhouse in the back of a cornfield in the land of Hoosiers.

Trouble with that was there might not be any handy food banks or… oh, wait. He didn’t need food banks anymore. He had money. He could buy a farmhouse, fix it up. Live a quiet life as a farmer.

Yeah, that wouldn’t work. He didn’t know anything about growing crops and wasn’t especially keen on learning. Sounded boring as hell.

So what _did_ he want to do with what was likely to be a very long life? He’d read in the Smithsonian Captain America brochure about how the serum was slowing down Steve’s aging process. Bucky was willing to bet that whatever changes HYDRA made to his own body would probably keep him young a long time, too. That could be a blessing or a curse. Lots of years to live with regret. But a lotta years to make amends.

So was he a glass half empty or half full kinda guy? Would he spend his life wallowing in regret and shame, or step out into the light and do some good?

Seems like he had been an optimist, back in the day.

He wanted to be an optimist again.

Wasn’t sure how to do that, given all the garbage in his brain, but… seems like if he wanted to do good in the world, he’d first have to start by accepting the idea that the world was worth the trouble. Had to set aside the fear that every person who looked twice at him was secretly HYDRA. Had to learn that the entire world wasn’t as evil as the people who’d made him into a killer.

Had to figure out how to convince the world he wasn’t that killer anymore.

Hell, had to figure out how to convince _himself_ that he wasn’t the monster anymore.

He picked up a piece of gravel and threw it at a broken brick in the parapet some thirty feet away. It hit dead center.

He always did have good aim.

He leaned the back of his head against the chimney and shut his eyes. The Avengers could probably use a sniper. Could definitely use his strength and his skills with his metal arm. He could punch out a lot of bad guys, both here on Earth and… he guessed… out in space.

_Out in space._

What the hell. That was another thing to get used to. Space aliens. It had all been fiction when he was a kid, but apparently aliens were a real thing now, and wasn’t that a kick in the head. Yeah, he imagined if there was another alien invasion, the Avengers might be happy to take anyone they could get, even a just-barely-not-a-monster ex-assassin. Six against Loki’s army had been a little overmatched, even though they managed to win. Something bigger comes along, they’d need more than just those six. Maybe he could work with that Hawkeye guy, sniping from the rooftops. The big green guy wouldn’t need his help, and neither would Stark, with his fancy suit. But Steve, the arrow guy, that Wilson guy with the wings, and that redhead, they might need…

He frowned.

That redhead. Black Widow, she called herself.

Something about her tickled a memory, but try as he might, he couldn’t bring it into focus. It was like remembering only part of a dream. He saw red hair. A room awash in red light. Blocking kicks and punches… and his own voice saying, in Russian, _“Faster. You’re too slow.”_

But that was it.

Had he trained someone who had looked like her?

Probably, though he doubted anyone in his past was as beautiful as the Black Widow. He’d seen the news footage, watched the graceful way she fought….

Yeah, she was something else. If there’d ever been someone like her in his past, surely no amount of HYDRA mindwipes could erase _that_ memory.

He sighed, then shifted a little. His butt was growing numb. Should probably go inside before frostbite set in. Not that he couldn’t heal up from frostbite within just a few hours, but it’d be an uncomfortable few hours that he’d just as soon not endure. He stood up, grunting a little. Even Winter Soldiers get stiff sitting motionless on a cold roof for too long. He retraced his path back down the fire escape and through the back door of the building. The hallways were silent. Not even any thumping bass from Jackie’s apartment.

That reminded him that he still had to retrieve the Tarzan books, so he detoured to landing where they still waited, undisturbed. He tucked the box under his left arm and made his way down to his apartment.

No one waiting this time.

He set the box on the table and then sat in the chair. He took his gloves off and stuffed them in his pockets, then took off his boots. He put them neatly side by side next to the chair, but he left his socks on. He also left his coat on. He stretched out on his bed, curling onto his side so he could look at the box of books. Wondered if reading them would unlock more memories, maybe even _good_ memories.

Probably.

If nothing else, he could lose himself in a warm jungle for a few hours. Fury and all the complications his arrival brought were problems he could deal with after the sun came up. He glanced guiltily at the copy of _The Hobbit._ He should probably finish it first, but the siren call of jungle adventure was irresistible. Poor Bilbo would have to wait.

He got out of bed, grabbed the first book in the series, then settled in to read.

_~The End, for now~_

**Author's Note:**

> OC's from Mr. Fix It that are may be mentioned here:
> 
> Kowalski: Bucky’s best friend in the building, or as much of a best friend as he can have at this point in his life. Kowalski is a 40-something bachelor, a semi-out-of-the-closet gay man, probably drinks a little too much, but is very kindhearted and into sports (watching, not playing). Wears glasses, works in the insurance field, has a nephew who’s a vet with PTSD, so he knows how to handle Bucky on his bad days. Has a big orange cat named Mambo. Plays pinochle with several people in the building, including Charlie Bender, who is a computer geek who loves hazelnut creamer in his coffee. Kowaski has a sister he would love to convince Bucky to date. (Editorial commentary: Kowalski is not a typical fandom fetish ‘hot, white gay guy.’ My goal with him is to show that not all gay men are hot and white, even though Kowalski is white and of Polish/German descent because that fits the real-world demographic of that neighborhood. This story is not about smut but about, as much as possible, realistic characters populating a realistic world, where not everyone is hot for each other. You want smut, it ain’t here. /editorial commentary)
> 
> Mr. Franklin: the owner of the building. Very big black man, possibly an ex-NFL player though I haven’t decided on that yet. Kindhearted, gives Bucky the job of maintenance man and building superintendent. 
> 
> Mrs. Eichelberger: cranky old biddy who lives on the first floor. She gave Bucky a griddle pan and other kitchen tools so he could make his pancakes. Catholic, 2-pack a day smoker, doesn’t get out much. Spends most of her day wearing a housecoat and slippers as she watches TV. She has a somewhat generous heart somewhere under all the prickles and thorns.


End file.
